


Ain't No Destination, Baby

by turps



Category: My Chemical Romance
Genre: Gen, Homelessness
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-10-06
Updated: 2012-10-06
Packaged: 2017-11-15 18:30:34
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 871
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/530366
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/turps/pseuds/turps
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>All Frank can do is try to survive.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Ain't No Destination, Baby

**Author's Note:**

> Written for [this](http://bandom-meme.dreamwidth.org/5544.html?thread=261800#cmt261800) picture prompt of homeless Frank for bandom_meme.

You learn fast on the streets.

You learn that actual deep sleep is impossible but dozing can happen when you’re wrapped in a blanket with your back to a wall.

You learn which coffee shops throw out unsold food and which dumpsters are safe to climb into.

You learn which areas to ignore and which ones provide safe places to hide.

You learn to show you don’t care -- that you’re not hungry -- that you’re not so cold your fingers have gone numb.

You learn to survive, and Frank has. He’s okay. He’s getting through each day.

He’s fine.

He’s also fucking scared.

~~~~~

Mostly, Frank’s days run the same. He wakes cold and aching. Forces himself upright while still wrapped in his blanket and waits for the hunger to hit. When it does he’ll eat what he found the previous night, stale muffins or slices of pizza -- if he got lucky, a worm-eaten apple thrown out at the grocers.

Then there’s nothing but walking. His feet burning and muscles tight as Frank walks the city, all the time pretending that he’s got a place to go -- that he still matters.

Until Frank can’t walk any further, and he heads for a safe place and sits, waiting for night and the escape of restless sleep.

What Frank doesn’t do is talk -- there’s no one to talk to -- until now, when someone stops close to the park bench and says, “There’s a new mobile unit on the corner of Bethany.”

“What?” The word feels clumsy in Frank’s mouth, his shoulders tensing as he tightens his grip on his bag. “I don’t....”

“It’s a church group, but word is they’re serving soup.” The man talking has got his hands pushed deep in his pockets and a black hat pulled down low on his head, his nose red and and limp curls escaping over the checked ratty scarf he's got wrapped around his neck. “It’ll probably taste like watered down shit, but it’ll be hot, and it’s going to be cold tonight.”

“It’s always fucking cold,” Frank says, and as much as this conversation is making no sense, it feels good to be noticed in a way beyond pity or disgust. “But I don’t... A mobile unit?”

“To feed the homeless.” The man frowns and considers Frank, then takes a step back as he pulls his hands out of his pockets, holding them palm up toward Frank. “Sorry, we’ve seen you around lately and thought you were one of us. My mistake.”

“It’s okay,” Frank says, understanding hitting as he falls silent, watching the man walk away after a last long look at Frank. Because Frank’s not one of them. He’s not one of the people he sees sitting in doorways, their eyes dead and begging for money.

Frank’s different to them. He is. Except, he knows that’s not true.

It can’t be when Frank’s clothes are filthy and his body unwashed. When his hair clings in greasy clumps to his head and his whole body aches. When as much as he tries to pretend otherwise he’s got nowhere to go and no place to call home.

Impulsively, Frank stands, his bag looped over his arm as he wobbles and clutches for the arm of the bench and says, “Wait.” The man stops and looks back, waiting as Frank blinks away black spots and takes a tentative step forward and admits. “You were right.”

“I thought so,” the man says, and patiently waits as Frank takes the initial painful steps forward, his body protesting each one. “This place shouldn’t be bad. They don’t preach or ask questions.”

Frank nods, trying not to wince as his stomach starts cramping. “But they serve food?”

“Usually soup and sandwiches.” The man’s got his hands in his pockets again, but he’s pushed down his scarf, revealing his mouth as he says, “I’m Ray.”

“Hi.” Frank doesn’t offer his own name, it’s just better that way, the thought of hot food warring with suspicion as he says, “You said we’ve seen you around.”

“Me and my friends,” Ray says, casual, as if it actually makes sense that someone like them has friends on the streets. “We stick together. You’ll see them at the mobile unit. Gerard said if we all approached you we’d scare you away.”

“I don’t get scared,” Frank says instantly and straightens his shoulders, knowing as weak as he feels he has to look strong. “I can take anyone on.”

“I’m sure you can,” Ray says, saying nothing when Frank stumbles over his own feet. “If a riot breaks out in the bread line I’ll push you in first.”

It’s a comment that feels like a joke, but right now Frank’s unable to tell for sure. Frustrated, he glares, says, “I’ll start the fucking riot.”

“A distraction so we can grab more food, I like it,” and this time Ray smiles, something warm and easy, Frank relaxing as he realises that yeah, the comments are jokes. “A few blocks and we’re there.”

“Okay,” Frank says, and steels himself to keep going. “I can do that.”

And Frank can. One foot in front of the fucking other.

Especially when, for the first time in weeks, he’s not walking alone.


End file.
